My Heart ❤️

I began life with challenges that shaped me early. My father trained me with a relentless discipline, refusing to let me accept circumstances that diminished my worth. In high school, I had to do twice the work to receive half the praise. If I scored thirty points in a game, because I was Black, it was counted as fifteen. My father taught me not to accept that injustice. Instead, I internalized the demand to double my effort. If thirty points were discounted, then I would score sixty. That drive to exceed expectations was ingrained in me from a young age, and it destroyed any tolerance for mediocrity or compromise.

Growing up in a segregated environment, I could not receive a proper assessment of my fair market value. Yet my father’s insistence on excellence pulled me out of the cognitive dissonance that often traps people into accepting less than they deserve. For me, it was unacceptable to live by a subjective narrative that diminished truth. I could not understand how people could watch others die and remain unmoved. Death is inevitable, and yet most people seem content to ignore its meaning. That realization pushed me toward deeper questions of faith, truth, and purpose.

In that search, I found myself drawn into the archetype of Moses. I was born Black, raised in a white world, trained in that world, and then taken out into a wilderness. Now, like Moses, I feel compelled to return and free the oppressed. Moses’ very name means “drawn out of water,” and I believe God drew me out of the world in a similar way. I cannot blame others for not seeing what I see; they were not raised as I was. Just as the Israelites, enslaved for generations, could not be expected to know Egyptian language or culture, they lacked the tools Moses had because he was raised in Pharaoh’s household. Moses lived eighty years in freedom while his people lived in bondage. That difference gave him the capacity to lead, and I see parallels in my own journey.

At the heart of this calling is God himself—the unapproachable light who desires children. The same God who created galaxies with a gesture also created humanity with flesh and spirit. He gave us Jesus, not as one among many identical beings, but as the unique representation of his heart and mind. As a father, I understand this in my own way. I have two children: one who was born from me, and one who chooses me. Each brings a different kind of joy, and together they complete me. In the same way, God desires both his natural Son and adopted children, united in his glory. The purpose of our existence is to become children who reflect that glory.

This purpose is eternal. Just as a woman gives birth to children into the physical realm, God uses this world as his womb to birth people into the spiritual realm. Jesus’ command to be “born again” is not metaphorical—it is a literal spiritual birth. Paul speaks of a spiritual body in 1 Corinthians, reminding us that this transformation is real. We are placed on Earth to undergo this process, gestating until we are born into the fullness of God’s kingdom.

But if, while in that womb, we destroy other embryos—other souls striving toward birth—we undermine the very reason for existence. It is like Nehemiah building a wall only to have it torn down daily. God creates what he loves, and humanity tries to destroy it. Faced with this, I ask God: what do you want me to do? His answer is clear—help others fulfill the purpose for which they were created. Yet people often reject that gift. They reject the pleasure God offers, even to the point of killing those who bring it. That rejection angers God, but it also serves as a test for us. We must keep offering, keep building, keep loving, even when rejected.

For me, this means trusting that God has my back. If he wakes me at three in the morning to pour myself into someone who rejects me, I can walk away knowing I fulfilled my role. Paul was stoned and returned to the city undeterred. That resilience comes only from knowing God’s support is unwavering. Jesus himself spoke with serious language about rejection and judgment, reminding us that God’s justice is real. For me, that truth eliminates the sting of rejection, even though I sometimes feel guilty about the consequences it implies for others. Still, I must accept what Scripture says.

Like Moses, I was drawn out of oppression, trained in freedom, and sent back to liberate others. My journey is one of resilience, faith, and calling. It is the story of being born into struggle, raised by oppressors, drawn into wilderness, and now returning with purpose. It is the story of God’s womb, birthing children into eternity. And it is the story of a man compelled to keep building, keep offering, and keep trusting, no matter the rejection.